by S. M. Soto
She scoffs, pushing the tip of her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Mr. King, I cannot tell you anything about any of my patients. You’re not her family, you are not in any way in charge of her conservatorship status, and you’re not on her approved visitors’ list.”
My smile turns ugly. I see it in the reflection of her glasses. She cowers, but not like normal people would. She’s seen too much crazy in her line of work to let others know when she’s scared or uncomfortable, like she is now. It’s a subtle movement, the way she sinks back, keeping a safe distance away.
“You’re going to tell me what I want to hear. You’re going to let me see her. I don’t give a shit if it’s against your policy or not. Do you know how easy it would be for me to ruin you?” I ask, keeping my voice low and even. There’s no need to get angry or show too much of my hand, not when she knows I’m right.
Her mouth twitches in displeasure as she mulls over the options in her head. She must come to some conclusion, deciding to give in. Just as I knew she would. She heaves a deep sigh that seems pent-up. It probably comes with the territory of the job.
“Look, I didn’t want to do this, but Mackenzie…she’s not in any headspace to have visitors.”
I straighten, my jaw clenching at her words. “And why is that?”
“Well…” She pauses, something akin to fear glimmering in her eyes, and fidgets in her chair. “She wasn’t in her right mind when she was brought in. That’s why her parents sent her here. They have full conservatorship over her because, at this point in her life, she’s been deemed incompetent. Maybe even a hazard to others, as well as herself.”
“How so?”
She quirks a brow. “Well, for starters, she seemed to think her dead sister saved her life the night of the accident, and on top of the many conversations she’s apparently had with her, she seemed to believe you and your friends were murderers. She claims the night of the accident, your friend was the one who followed her and tried to kill her. There are obvious holes in her story, and things that don’t make sense. She’s been hallucinating, claims there is someone out to get her. She’s paranoid. It’s one of the main reasons I think it’s in her best interest that her parents keep her here.”
Talking to her dead sister? I wasn’t expecting that.
“I couldn’t care less about all of that. Take me to her.”
Dr. Aster chuckles as if what I’ve just said is amusing. She pulls her glasses down the bridge of her nose, watching me. “Believe me, Mr. King. I think you’re the last person she wants to see.”
My hands curl into fists, the only giveaway of my frustration. “And why is that?”
“We’ve had a discussion about you. You’re not exactly her favorite person at the moment.” At my silence, she sighs. “I asked her to say your name and state the emotions that come with saying your name, and do you want to know what was said?”
Fuck no.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway?”
“Pain. Betrayal. Anger. That’s how she feels when she thinks of you. Those are the emotions she associates with you, and honestly, from a doctor’s standpoint, I don’t think it’s in her best interest to see you. In fact, it may only make things worse. Especially after the incident.”
My brows dip, concern filling my body. “I wasn’t made aware of an incident.”
She fidgets in her chair, obviously uncomfortable with the news she has to deliver. “You’re not her next of kin. Of course you wouldn’t be made aware. Her parents have been updated on the situation, and even though they’ve yet to come see her, it’s…as I said, she’s not well.”
“Fucking spit it out,” I grit.
“She had an altercation with one of the patients. Accused her of fraternizing with the enemy. Whatever that was supposed to mean.” She sighs. “While the guards took her down, something happened. As they were pulling both women off each other, she slammed her head against the table, cracked her skull before hitting the ground.”
I feel the air leave my chest like someone has kicked me.
What the fuck is she saying right now?
“What exactly are you trying to tell me, Doctor?” My voice is cold, laced with venom. I lean forward slowly, the atmosphere in the space of her office filling with tension. Her eyes widen at the underlying threatening tone in my voice. She works a swallow.
“She’s alive. Though she has some new scars to add to her stockpile, she’s alive, and that’s all that matters. I’m positive this incident will in no way, shape, or form slow down her progress,” she jumps to add, at the expression on my face, “just a short-term setback is all this is.”
“Let me see her,” I growl, my hands curling around the arm of my chair. The wood creaks beneath my unrelenting grip.
She shakes her head. “I can’t do that. You’re not her family, Mr. King.”
“I’m not leaving here until I see her.”
She blows out an agitated sigh. “How about this? I take you to her room where we observe her from the other side of the door. I usually watch her from the windows, but today, you can join me. To see for yourself that she’s in good hands here.”
Not fucking likely.
The entire walk to the institution’s infirmary room, I can feel my heart pounding at the mere idea of seeing her again. It’s a quick and deep reverberation in my chest that feels like a steel drum. Even if I am supposed to hate her after everything she’s done, I’m incapable. After going days thinking she was dead, I just want to see with my own eyes that she’s okay.
My heart stalls in my chest when they walk us into her room, my gaze homing in on the small lumped form lying in the center of the hospital grade bed. I take in the casts, the bruising, just how battered she looks, and something tight and restricting enters my chest, squeezing my organs until I’m holding back a wince. Her hair is a shock back to reality, showing just how far she was willing to go for all of this. The black hair that I used to think was hers is now grown out halfway and a portion of the top half of her head is blond. There’s a patch of hair missing near the top of her head and forehead and a large scar protruding from the skin, which I’m assuming is from the altercation with the other patient.
“We’ve been giving her medication for the pain, and it makes her a little drowsy,” Dr. Aster offers, as we stare at her still form, blanketed in a heavy silence. My brows dip, and I’m just about to ask how often she’s been sleeping, when I freeze, noticing that Mackenzie is starting to lift her head. I refrain from flinching when I get a look at her face as she shifts positions. It’s bruised to shit, and it makes me want to haul her into my arms and take her far away from here, but I can’t do that.
For so many reasons, but only one that truly matters.
We continue watching her in silence. Both of us picking Mackenzie apart in our own ways. She’s likely trying to diagnose while I’m trying to find the woman who has held me captive from the moment I met her. I feel something crumble when I have a hard time finding her. Especially lying there in that bed, looking fragile and helpless.
It hits me then, just how royally I’ve fucked up. Madison asked me to look after her sister the night she died, and as I look at the shell of a woman lying in the bed, I realize just how badly I’ve failed.
When Mackenzie begins stirring again, I clamp my back teeth together and turn on my heel, away from her room. There’s a time and place for a reunion, but right now, like this? This isn’t it. She’ll feel caged if she knows I’ve been here watching her, seeing her at one of her lowest moments.
“As the ex-boyfriend, I can imagine seeing her like this is a shock,” Dr. Aster says, following me down the hall, away from Mackenzie’s room.
“How do you figure?”
“Call it my doctoral intuition.”
“She’s not my problem anymore.” The words are like acid on my tongue, turning my stomach.
“You don’t mean that. Want to know how I know that?”
I roll my eyes. “N
ot really.”
Her lips hitch up in amusement. “Because of the way you were staring at her.” Taking a step toward me, she seems to try to gather herself. “Listen, I get it. Your need to come in here and see for yourself how she’s doing. But I’d suggest you let go. Live your life. You and all your friends.”
I leave, intending to do just that. But that’s the thing about intentions you’re not committed to. They never come true.
“How is she?”
“She’s upset and, well, awfully paranoid,” Dr. Aster replies.
I blow out a breath, nudging my glass of scotch away. “Right.”
“You don’t have to keep calling to check on her. If I remember correctly, you said she wasn’t your problem anymore.”
I press my lips together, fighting the urge to curse at her. She’s not wrong. I did say those things, but I didn’t mean them. And she obviously knows that.
“Listen, she can’t hurt you guys anymore. I’ve told that to your friend. You both don’t have to keep doing this.”
Everything screeches to a halt. My eyes dart to Marcus, who’s sitting on the couch, his brows drawn together as he watches me.
“What did you just say?”
“That you don’t have to worry about—”
“Who else has been there to see her besides me? You said she had no previous visitors.” At the sharpness in my tone, Marcus jolts up straight, confusion marring his features.
She pauses. “I never said that. I said her parents have yet to visit her.”
“Answer my fucking question!” I slam my hand down on my desk, my anger exploding.
“Mr. Hawthorne. He doesn’t come for visits. He just signs in, stands outside her room, and watches like you did, then leaves. I think he just wants to see with his own eyes that she truly is here. And not anywhere near him. Just like most victims, it gives them a peace of mind.”
Anger simmers through my veins, and my stomach churns and tightens as I slowly process. He’s been visiting her this whole time. Chances are, he’s the reason she got into the altercation with that other patient. The same altercation that resulted in another brain injury.
“And you’re sure it’s Vincent Hawthorne?”
“I’m positive.”
“Kick him off the list. Do not let him near her. Understand me? I will pull the funding. I will ruin you. No one should be allowed to visit her but family.”
“What, why? I let you in. How is that any different than Mr. Hawthorne?”
“He is not there as a friend, believe me. He’s capable of many things. I’ll leave it at that.”
As soon as I end the call, Marcus is on his feet, concern written all over his face. “What the hell is happening?”
“Vincent. He’s been there. Visiting her this entire time.”
He shakes his head. “That’s impossible. Why would he…why would he be there to see Mackenzie? Unless—” His gaze shoots up to mine, his eyes widening. “You don’t think he’s…?”
I grip the edges of the desk, my fingers digging into the wood. “I think at this point, he’s capable of anything.”
We share a look that voices my biggest fears. I didn’t trust anyone anymore, and even though Marcus has proven himself, a part of me is still wary. Even at Dan’s insistence that Marcus is clear. Fact of the matter was, I needed Marcus as my inside man to find out the truth from the rest of the guys.
Snatching my phone off the desk, I dial Dan, telling him to bring the car around. I’ll be paying Vincent a visit, whether he likes it or not.
I have Marcus stay behind at Kings in case he runs into any of the other guys. I wanted them all in at least one of our sights at all times. With my hands shoved deep into my pockets, to keep me from doing anything out of pocket, I walk into the entrance of Vincent’s luxury penthouse in Hollywood. He owns the entire top floor, the only one of us who prefers a building like this rather than an actual house in the hills.
The doorman greets me with a tip of his hat, recognizing me immediately. I’ve been here countless times before, so my visit is nothing out of the ordinary for anyone here. Anyone except Vincent. I let myself inside, taking satisfaction in the surprised look that flashes across his face. He’s sitting on his couch, music blasting, two girls making out on the chaise beside him. The air reeks of weed, and the thin white lines on the table tell me exactly what his plans are for tonight.
“Came to join the party, did you?”
The look I give him is anything but pleasant. It’s fire and ice. The muscle in my jaw clenches with how forcefully I’m grinding my teeth together.
Sensing the shift in the air, the heavy weight of my anger blankets the room, and slowly, Vincent rises from the couch, blunt in hand and heads toward his balcony that overlooks downtown LA.
“Well…” Vincent exhales along with a plume of smoke. “If you’re not here to party, what are you here for?”
I press my back up against the glass of his sliding glass window. Slipping my hands back into my slack pockets, I raise a leg, resting it behind me, adopting a casual pose that’s so at odds with the way I’m feeling inside.
“Had an interesting discussion today with a Dr. Poppy Aster.”
I wait for him to react to the name, to the news that I know, but he doesn’t. He raises his brow, taking another puff from his blunt, waiting for me to go on.
“Am I supposed to know who she is?”
I search his gaze for the truth. His eyes are bloodshot and heavy lidded. He’s already high, and telling by the dilation of his pupils, he’s already done a few lines as well. He either has no clue who I’m referring to, or he’s a damn good liar.
“I know about your frequent visits to the mental institution. That’s what I’m talking about. It was clever of you, keeping her whereabouts to yourself. Wanted to finish what you started?”
A crease forms between Vincent’s brows. Confusion crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Why the fuck would I visit a mental hospital?”
A dry laugh escapes my throat. “You know exactly why. Your name has been on the visitors’ log for weeks. The doctor told me you’ve been visiting all too frequently.”
Vincent stares at me for a beat, looking completely puzzled. Until it clicks. I watch it happen, when understanding dawns. His eyes glint, something dark infiltrates his gaze, and he presses his lips together in a thin line.
“How frequent have my visits been?” The way he asks the question, with a slight edge to his voice, has all the hairs at the back of my nape standing at attention. I straighten, pushing off the wall.
Something that feels strangely similar to panic flares in my gut and I lash out at Vincent. Clasping him by the collar of his shirt, I slam him up against the wall, my forearm pressing against his throat, cutting off his air supply.
I search his gaze, looking for answers in his dark, almost black eyes. Endless pools of sins and debauchery. He’s supposed to be my brother, but as I stare down at him, I realize we haven’t been brothers for a very long time.
“Do it,” he chokes out beneath the weight of my arm. “You’ll be putting me out of my misery.”
My brows crease at the odd statement. With a frustrated growl, I shove away from him, putting much needed distance between us before I snap his neck. He bends over, choking from the lack of oxygen. When he rights himself, I see it in his eyes.
My nostrils flare as realization dawns on us both. “It was him, wasn’t it?”
“That sneaky motherfucker,” Vincent seethes, referring to Zach. “I’ll kill him.” The way Vincent says it, it isn’t just a statement, it’s a promise. This whole time, I thought the two have been working together, but I was wrong. Zach has gone rogue on all of us, including Vincent. The two have always shared a complicated relationship, for whatever reason, but it seems now, something has changed, and the two friends who were always like brothers are falling apart.
That sneaky motherfucker, indeed. Not only is he pretending to be Vincent to save his own ass, but h
e’s taking matters into his own hands. And I can’t have that.
Past
“Girls, let’s go! Your dad is in the car waiting.”
Madison and I scramble to gather our stuff. We’re headed to the beach today. It’s become somewhat of a family tradition. One we always do near our dad’s birthday. Pismo Beach for the day. Madison and I have made a habit of collecting seashells each year. She wants to be a marine biologist. I’m not sure what I want to do yet, but I’m sure whatever it is, I’ll follow in her footsteps, just as I always do.
It’s a bit overcast out here today, so there are not many people on the beach, but Madison and I still strip out of our clothes and sprint straight for the water, splashing each other as we go. Happiness fills my chest as we slip underneath the ice-cold water for a swim, our bodies shivering, our lips turning blue, but still, we welcome the sensation, becoming one with it. I know she feels the same. Just as I know the sky is blue and the grass is green. It’s our thing. We just know what the other is thinking and how the other is feeling. We always know.
My mom and dad brought the portable radio, and when we hear the beginning strains of the song, Madison and I laugh and squeal, running out of the water. Gripping each other’s hands, we spin, dancing around to the song. “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac. It’s our song, the one we can’t stand still for when it comes on. It is one of those songs that makes you want to move.
“When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know,” we sing in unison, horribly off-pitch, but we cackle with amusement anyway, finding our singing amusing.
Laughing hysterically, we drop into the sand, letting our equilibrium adjust after vigorous spinning, the clouds and the gloomy sky shifting around us.
“You feel better?” Madison asks quietly as the song still plays in the background, both of us now deep in the task of digging for shells.
I shrug, remembering why I was so sad in the first place. Delilah, from our sixth-grade class, has taken it upon herself to pick on me this school year. We were all best friends last year, but whatever happened from then to now changed, and she’s made it her life’s mission to make my life a living hell.
